


Pelt and Friction

by moonblossom



Series: Ink and Honour [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Abuse of interior decor items, Fluffy Smut, Frottage, M/M, Regency Era, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock teaches John to love and appreciate the tiger rug in his rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pelt and Friction

**Author's Note:**

> [Jackie-Illustration on tumblr drew me this absolutely gorgeous fanart](http://jackie-illustration.tumblr.com/post/60861176482/finally-for-moonblossom-for-this-wonderful), and I fell promptly in love with the tiger rug. I decided it needed a fic of its own.
> 
> As a reminder, you can see all the beautiful artwork this fic and subsequent universe has generated in [the meta post here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956866)
> 
> Huge thanks to Nanners for giving this a good read-through and making some fantastic suggestions.

The sight that greeted John upon entry into the bedroom was thoroughly distracting. Sherlock was lounging on the bed they had come to share, wearing nothing but a thin nightshirt and his loud Banyan coat, wide open and leaving nothing whatsoever to the imagination. It was quite clear what sort of a mood he was in.

John, in all honesty, was not averse to the evening progressing in that direction, but he felt as though he had been indulging Sherlock frequently of late, and it would be good for his character to force him to work a bit for it. He sat on the small settee in the bedroom which, though it technically belonged to Sherlock, was more the both of theirs by now.

The room was generally quite comfortable. Sherlock's bed was large enough for the both of them, the mattress having a layer of feathers over the straw. The walls were hung in a soft green watered silk, and lined with books and curiosities of Sherlock's.

The one object in the room John could not abide was the rug. It was the skin of a tiger, with the head still attached. John prodded the thing with one stockinged foot.

"I do not understand why you insist on keeping this monstrosity."

"It is rather hideous, is it not?" Sherlock grinned. He jumped off the bed and landed elegantly in the middle of the rug, squatting and patting the tiger's head. The yellow glass eyes glared menacingly at John. "Why does it bother you so?" He sprawled backwards, still fluid and graceful. His legs were bare and he let them fall apart slightly, allowing John to confirm he had chosen to forgo drawers under his nightshirt. John swallowed thickly and looked away, vainly attempting to appear disinterested to keep up the illusion of rebuffing Sherlock.

"It reminds me of a former colleague. A colonel in the army, he had a similarly distasteful rug in his quarters. He used to tell great boasting tales about having shot the awful thing himself, while on the Indian subcontinent. He was a great bear of a man, with the most unbecoming and unfashionable whiskers."

Sherlock shuddered, elegantly and theatrically, teasing John. "The horror!"

John grinned and threw a small cushion at his irascible lover. Sherlock, of course, caught it neatly without any apparent effort. He put it behind his head and laid back indulgently, sprawling on the rug in a manner John found entirely too arousing. John had intended to make a show of rebuffing Sherlock's advances, and Sherlock had chosen to head him off at the pass and make a production of being a needy, obscene harlot. The linen of his nightshirt was already beginning to cling to his tumescence, and John could feel his own body begin to respond in kind.

"It really is a terrible carpet. I wish you would put it in storage."

"And if I refuse?"

"I might have no choice but to return to my bedroom indefinitely." John's voice came out ragged and breathy already, betraying him. "Why are you so attached to it?"

Sherlock stroked the tiger's head fondly, long fingers trailing through the short fur. The gesture was overblown and hedonistic, and John imagined those fingers doing the same to the short hair at the base of his prick. He groaned softly and Sherlock smirked.

"I lay here while reading your letters."

"Oh, did you now?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and murmured his assent. The fingers on the tiger's head continued to stroke and wander, and his other hand stroked his chest in a manner that was clearly calculated to appear idle and random while driving John absolutely mad.

"I bet you painted quite a picture." John cleared his throat and shifted his weight as his cock continued to thicken, straining the front of his breeches. "Did you touch yourself?"

"I did try not to. It is such a depraved habit. But eventually, I found myself so overcome that I had no choice."

John's heart pounded in his ears. His eyes were wide, taking in the sight of Sherlock's growing erection distorting the fabric of his nightshirt as his hands continued stroking his own chest and the damnable rug.

"Show me, Sherlock. Show me exactly what I missed."

Sherlock apparently needed no further motivation. With an emphatic moan, he bent his knees and allowed his legs to fall open completely, giving John a clearer picture of what he had only hinted at earlier. He released his grip on the rug and placed both elegant hands on his knees. 

Transfixed, John removed himself from the settee and dropped to his knees, settling himself with a spectacular view of Sherlock's spread legs. As Sherlock's hands began to trail lightly up and down the long, pale length of his bare thighs, John made quick work of removing his waistcoat and unbuttoning his breeches at the waist and calves. The noise caused Sherlock to look up, and he nodded approvingly at John's progress before closing his eyes again and letting his head fall back onto the cushion.

John watched eagerly as Sherlock pulled his nightshirt up over his hips, bunching it around his waist and exposing himself fully. He was already beautifully hard, his penis long and thick and curving away from his body slightly. As Sherlock's hands got nearer to his cock, John's breath caught in his throat. The sight laid out before him was absolutely gorgeous. Sherlock, already so flushed and wanton and trusting, spread out like a buffet for the taking. John was rather enjoying the tease, though, and made a concentrated effort to keep still, to enjoy Sherlock's little performance. John's prick was fully hard now too. Loosening his breeches had given him some small degree of comfort but he was still confined in his drawers, and he reached down to adjust himself just as Sherlock's hands tightened around the base of his own erection.

Sherlock wrapped both hands around himself, making quite a production of the whole thing. He rocked his hips upwards and John could not help the small gasp that escaped his lips. Sherlock chuckled deeply. He tightened one hand around the base of his shaft and brought the other smoothly up to the tip, sliding the loose skin up over the head. When he pulled it back down, the head was exposed and glistening, already covered in a thin film of pre-ejaculate. John's own cock throbbed in sympathy, and he squeezed himself without conscious thought and let out a low groan.

Sherlock began to stroke himself more vigorously now, one hand pumping smoothly up and down the length of his shaft as the other cradled and rocked his bollocks. John bit his lip and gripped his knees tightly to hold himself still. Every so often, Sherlock would cant his hips upwards and rake one knuckle across the smooth skin of his perineum, and John knew the moans he let out at those intervals were not merely for show. Sherlock's breath quickened and his cheeks flushed even deeper as his pace increased. It was not long before he was pausing frequently, one hand tight around the base of his prick and the other tugging on his testicles, a move John knew meant that Sherlock was getting too close to orgasm for comfort.

As much as he was enjoying the spectacle, John found the idea of Sherlock climaxing without him entirely distasteful. He stood and stepped out of his breeches, drawers, and stockings, and dropped to his knees, looming over Sherlock. He pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it away.

Gently, he grabbed both of Sherlock's hands and guided them away from his body, pinning them up over his head. Sherlock moaned and undulated beneath him, bringing his cock up close to John's body. John transferred both of Sherlock's wrists to a one-handed grip and kept him there, leaning in close to steal a kiss. Sherlock's lips were already dry and cracked from his gasping and panting. John nibbled and sucked on them, before probing his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock continued to writhe and buck beneath him, eventually bringing their cocks together in one sharp jerk. John gasped, bright lights flashing behind his eyes. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's hips and pulled him down.

"If you will no longer let me touch myself, then you must touch me, John."

Impishly, John trailed his fingers up the exposed side of Sherlock's rib cage, until he met the bundled linen of Sherlock's nightshirt. Sherlock whined, a loud keening thing, and rolled his hips from side to side. The motion caused his erection to rub against John's again, but John grit his teeth and held fast. He trailed one finger across Sherlock's exposed collarbone, placed a gentle kiss on his flushed throat. Sherlock continued to squirm and whine the entire time, attempting to use his legs to gain purchase against John's body, but to no avail.

"Have pity, John. You are as aroused as I am." He lowered his voice, rough and deep, and murmured in John's ear. "You would do well to thrust your cock against me, grind against my body until you reach your climax. Splatter me in cream, mark me as yours. Hurry, John."

If there was one thing that shattered John's willpower thoroughly and completely every time, it was Sherlock speaking in the vulgar manner of a common doxy. His voice was far too rich, far too cultured, and the contrast was like a shock to the base of John's cock, every single time. Giving it up for a lost cause, he released his grip on Sherlock's wrists and braced one hand hard against the floor. The other he insinuated into the tight space between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around their cocks, pressing them snugly together. They were both hot and slick with sweat and pre-ejaculate, and slid smoothly against one another.

Sherlock moaned, a strange combination of arousal and triumph, and John cut him off with another blistering kiss. As their tongues intertwined, John rocked his hips steadily, grinding against Sherlock and stroking their erections together in a way that sent sparks up his spine. Judging by the way Sherlock was gasping and panting into John's mouth, his moans increasing in pitch and frequency, the contact was having the same effect on him. He wrapped both legs tightly around John's waist, further closing the space between them.

John pulled away from Sherlock's lips and peppered soft kisses across his eyelids, his cheekbones, down his jawline.

"You are beautiful, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock arched beneath him and managed to open his eyes and glare at John in a way that plainly said _Obviously, and I you_ and John chuckled against his throat.

They rutted against each other with a near-frantic urgency, both having been driven mad by Sherlock's earlier teasing, and John knew this would not be a long, drawn-out coupling. He felt the tightness in his abdomen and in his bollocks that signalled impending climax, and increased his pace, running his thumb repeatedly over the head of Sherlock's prick, an attempt at coaxing his orgasm out first.

John bit his lip, trying to slow his own response. Sherlock stiffened beneath him, his whole body going rigid and arching up off the floor so violently that John nearly tumbled off. Sherlock let out one sharp, abortive cry and John felt the warm flow of fluid spill out between them as Sherlock climaxed. John groaned as he, too, was undone. He grit his teeth and thrust one last time, his cock twitching violently against Sherlock's body as the evidence of their orgasms intermingled between them.

Eventually, Sherlock's muscles relaxed and they both melted into the floor, their breaths and heartbeats steadying and slowing as one.

They lay entangled on the carpet for a while, until Sherlock started to squirm beneath John.

"The fur is chafing me in a most inconvenient place, John. I suggest we move to the bed."

John laughed, pressing a gentle kiss into the sweaty curve of Sherlock's throat.

"I am quite comfortable here, Sherlock. And I find myself growing rather enamoured of your hideous rug. Are you certain you would not rather spend the evening here?"

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, and John felt himself slipping off onto his side. Laughing, he stood and held a hand out to Sherlock, who gripped it and clambered to his feet in a sleepy and most ungainly manner. John steered him towards the bed and padded across the room to dampen a flannel in the washbasin. He wiped himself down, rinsed it, and tossed it to Sherlock before slipping into a nightshirt.

"You know, Sherlock, if you slept with more regularity you would not be so useless after sex." Sherlock grumbled and buried his face in the pillow, barely deigning to make room for John to settle in next to him.

"I have to admit though," John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's temple as he burrowed down under the covers. "You have convinced me. The rug can stay."

**Author's Note:**

> Let's play "How many random canon references can Moony shove into this AU?" ;)


End file.
